Carol Frith

Arbitrary Margins

I imagine the air, light soaked, limitless,
your flesh beneath my hand.
There is nothing to say.

On the wall, a generic picture of the sea,
water pulling away fromits arbitrary margin.
You are talking to me in slow circles
of sound.

I believe in the absent ring of your voice:
blank routine beyond touch.

Outside, green light moves in the birch
leaves. The day ends, begins.

I count one, two, three, four windowpanes
in the sunlight. You move my hand against
your skin, lecture me on the elegance
of numbers.

Light migrates inside the room, broken
pieces of light littering the floor.

Distance and shadow: green light (a whisper
of the sea). Beneath my hand, your warm
flesh--the cadence of a breeze reversing
its direction--a doorway, a window:
vanishing point.

I shall keep myself company, you say, my
hand pressing palm prints into your skin.

It is late in the story: the light grows yellow,
biding its time.

Neither one of us is doing penance.